


The Little Match Boy

by Hana_Noiazei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, NorFin, Platonic NorFin, fairytale, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hana_Noiazei/pseuds/Hana_Noiazei
Summary: A lonely little boy finds a friend on Christmas Day.
Relationships: Finland & Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Nordictalia Secret Santa





	The Little Match Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bwinkbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwinkbear/gifts).



How cold it was!

The snow fell from the Heavens in soft white tufts, piling up on the ground in little piles. It nestled on the treetops, on the painted eaves and onto the cupped hands of eager children. Little boys and girls ran all around, slipping on the ice-slick floor with shrieking laughter, for it was Christmas, and it was practically impossible for children to be sad on such a joyful day. Their cheeks were pink from the chilly wind as they threw snowballs at each other with shouts of mirth.

But there was one boy who wasn’t so happy. He stood on the icy road with numb, swollen feet, shivering in his threadbare coat. His trembling hands held a few packages of matches, and with a hoarse voice he tried to advertise his sale.

Nobody paid the poor little boy any attention. He called and called at the people walking past, but none of them seemed to want any matches — not one! Desperation grew in him, for he had to sell all his matches by midnight, or he would not have enough money to buy himself a meager dinner. Tears pricked at his desolate brown eyes. 

His parents were long dead, the poor thing, and he worked for a wicked old man who’d taken away all that he’d once possessed. All he could remember from his days of joy was his name, Timo.

Timo wrapped his coat around himself, puffing his sunken cheeks. He stared longingly into the brightly-lit shops, thinking of how delightful it would be to go inside them. Oh! He could go into the candy store and feast on marzipans and toffee, or perhaps into the bakery, where the baker might be kind enough to give him a crust of bread or even a bit of cake. That would be Heaven compared to being out in the cold.

“Matches!” He continued to shout, all while his teeth chattered. “Matches, five kroner a packet!” He sneezed, bent over and nearly dropped all his fare. “ _Matches!_ ”

It really was very cold. He had no warm bed to return to once the day was through, no crackling fireplace to curl up next to. Just the thought of shivering under his thin blanket all night long made Timo want to cry. He could hardly feel his feet.

Timo was sure he would not be able to sell any of his matches, no matter how hard he tried. Everyone else in the city was warm, it seemed. Everyone except him.

When he raised his hands to look at his fingers he found that they were tipped with blue, and so cold that no sensation could be felt in them. Maybe he could warm his fingers with a match, just one match. His old employer would never notice. Looking around to make sure nobody saw him, Timo pulled a match out of a packet and struck it against the wall.

Its wine-dark head erupted into a bright flare of flames, bright and warm. It was so hot that it almost hurt at first, but greedily Timo hovered his fingers over it until the frost in them melted away. He warmed his feet and his cheeks, and was about to dry his damp coat when the flame died.

He struck another match without hesitation, huddling closer to the flame. Red and orange danced before Timo’s eyes, and if he looked at it long enough he swore he could see a table groaning under the weight with a Christmas feast in the fire. Yes, as he squinted he could see plates laden with roasts of all kinds, puddings and stews galore, and even a grand glistening croquembouche right in the middle! Timo could not keep his mouth from watering at the grand sight.

The flame went out again, and the feast disappeared. Half-mad with hunger and desire, Timo struck a third match. The feast returned, and next to it was a Christmas tree, laden with rainbow-coloured candles and pretty glass ornaments. If he focused enough, perhaps he could smell the lovely aromas from the sumptuous dishes, and the freshness of the tree…

But then the flame died. He struck his fourth match. This time, as he gazed into the light, he saw a boy sitting at the tree. He was just as old as him, with fair skin and spun-gold hair, but the similarities ended there. The boy in the fire had on a lovely new shirt, which had buckles that gleamed like jewels, and a beautiful clip sitting in his locks. His cheeks were full and pink, and he smiled softly. Timo could not remember the last time _he_ had smiled.

He watched the boy reach for his gifts and unwrap them delicately, placing the untorn wrapping paper and ribbons in a neat pile next to him. He pulled out wooden figurines, books and fountain pens, regarding every present with periwinkle eyes alight with joy. Nobody else seemed to be with him, even though all those gifts must’ve come from _someone_. 

The flame went out. Timo sobbed, he had to keep looking! If he did, perhaps he would be able to feel warm and full, too. He dropped his extinguished match onto the cold, wet ground and struck another one.

The boy had flipped one of his new books open, poring over its bright illustrations with that faint smile of his. Timo struck match after match just to watch the boy finish his book, then take another of his presents to play with. In his hand was a tin soldier, painted all blue and red with a pointy musket by its side. The boy turned it over and over in his hands. 

_R-R-Ratch!_ Another match. The boy was filling his new fountain pen with ink. 

_R-R-Ratch!_ The boy was drawing a face onto a wooden violinist who’d been given to him without.

_R-R-Ratch! R-R-Ratch! R-R-Ratch!_ Timo swiftly went through most of his packet, desperate to see the life of this boy who was both so like and so unlike him. He had only known him for a few minutes, but he was sure that they would be very good friends if they ever met. 

The sky was completely dark now, and the winds were growing in strength. Snow swirled up from the ground and chilled Timo to the bone, snapping him out of his festive reverie. He began shivering again, and reached for a match to warm himself. Then he realised he only had one left.

He had not sold a single packet, but used all the matches on himself! He could feel his stomach grumbling. What if he collapsed on the way home? Nobody would help him. He might fall from the cold, or his hunger, or simply because it would be better than going back to his awful employer. It might be better to stay here, on the cold streets, than to go back.

There was nothing he could lose. Timo struck his last match.

The boy was standing up now, pacing around the room with light, dance-like steps. Then he turned and looked right at Timo. “Good evening.”

“Oh!” He started. “Er, good evening.”

“Lovely night, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. It _is_ a bit cold, though.”

“You’re right.” The boy rubbed his arms through his pretty shirt. “I am lucky I have a nice warm fireplace in here with me, and a thick blanket in my bed. Do you have any of those things?”

“No,” Timo admitted. “I have nothing.”

“Nothing!” The boy repeated. “That is very sad indeed. Why don’t you come with me? If I look hard enough I’m sure I’d be able to find you an extra place to sleep. But before that, you ought to stay for dinner too.”

He must be seeing things. This boy, who lived in the flames, was inviting him to have Christmas dinner with him. And he might even be able to sleep over! He hardly heard himself say, “that is very kind of you. I think I will go, if only I may know your name.”

“I’m Lukas. And you are…?”

“Timo,” he supplied. “It is very nice to meet you. May I ask who gave you all those presents you opened just a few moments ago?”

Lukas smiled at him, and his eyes glittered. He was quite pretty, almost like those dolls he had been gifted. “My friends, of course. Henrik and Berwald, and Harald and Aleksander. They might well have presents to spare for you, too.”

Presents? For him? However could he deny that? The flame was dying, and he did not have much time left. “I would like to go with you, Lukas,” he said decisively, “if that would not be too much trouble to you.”

“Not at all.” Lukas extended his hand, and it seemed like it reached out of the flame and into the cold December air. “Just take my hand and you’ll be there.”

He wasted no time in grasping his hand, finding it warm and soft, and soon he felt as though he was being pulled through the flames. When he opened his eyes, Timo found himself in the beautiful room, with its Christmas tree and dinner table and crackling fireplace. Lukas squeezed his hand, announcing, “here we are. You may stay here forever if you want. I know I do.”

He stared around the room, breathing the warm air in deeply. It was so very cosy. 

A log popped in the fireplace. The candles on the Christmas tree flickered away. Lukas tugged him towards the dining table, where the many dishes had yet to be eaten. “Let us have dinner first. After that, we may go upstairs to bed. 

Timo smiled, his face stretching with the unfamiliar gesture, and let himself be sat down on a plush chair, and have foodstuffs of all kinds piled onto his plate. He and Lukas chatted the night away, and he was right — they _did_ feel like the best of friends.

Once they had eaten their fill, Lukas took him up a staircase he hadn’t seen before and showed him his very own bedroom. “I will leave you for tonight, but surely we will meet again tomorrow morning. Goodnight, Timo, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he echoed. He took off his coat and placed it on a chair, then crawled into bed. The night sky was starry outside. He felt warm and sleepy and safe, now that he was no longer in the cold. With a content little sigh, Timo closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> chicken butt :)


End file.
